


Midnight, the Keeper

by Freyjabee



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: F/F, Midnight, Moonlight, secret meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 09:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17200724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freyjabee/pseuds/Freyjabee
Summary: Each one of those bright, bright lights holds someone's secret and never tells a soul; Midnight is an excellent Keeper.





	Midnight, the Keeper

The wind grabs her hair and tugs, icy fingers on her scalp. It tangles with the girl’s in her arms, red and white, red and white. Mira barely feels the cold, though her cheeks are wind burnt and raw, her fingers are all but numb. The discomfort fades as Erza opens her coat allowing Mira inside. The girl’s skin jumps with Mira’s touch. She hisses. It bleeds into a moan, the peaks of her breasts found and teased through the thin lacy fabric covering her skin. Mira kisses her firmly, taking that moan, swallowing it, treasuring it. Between her legs aches.

Erza releases her mouth.

Above, stars wink beyond the lip of a crumbling bridge. Mira sees them as she tips her head back while Erza kisses her throat. Each one of those bright, bright lights holds someone’s secret and _never tells a soul_ ; Midnight is an excellent Keeper.

Below, the river rushes by, hiding their breaths and thusly, keeping them anonymous.

Erza’s teeth sink into Mira’s throat, letting her know she’s being lax with her ministrations. Mira lets out a breath and focuses again. Erza’s backed herself up to a concrete ledge barely two feet wide. On one side is the rushing river, on the other is a solid concrete wall. They’ve been here before; Mira knows what she wants. It’s the reason Erza’s in a skirt instead of pants, though early spring is still so cold.

Mira takes her hands out of Erza’s shirt, forgoing the warmth, and touches her as she likes. It used to be awkward. It’s become easy. She used to hate the taste. Now she craves it.

Erza isn’t wearing anything below her pleated plaid skirt. Her dark boots are tall enough that as Mira spreads her wider, her hands on Erza’s knees, she can feel the leather on her skin, she can smell it and the polish Erza used earlier that day.

Making Erza orgasm used to be hard. Mira’s tongue would go numb, or she’d never be able to find the right rhythm. Not anymore. Now, Erza’s fingers thread through her hair, she’s praised, she’s cursed, she’s pushed into Erza’s body with force, she’s called names, both good and bad. Her reward for all the abuse is feeling Erza’s body tense, feeling Erza get wet, wet, wet. Feeling Erza tug her up and kiss her fiercely, unafraid—no, _excited_ —to taste herself on Mira’s tongue.

And then she’s pushing Mira away, getting behind her and bending her over the concrete slab. Mira stretches her arms out, feeling the wall on two sides, the false stone that’s been warmed by Erza’s body. At her back, Erza exposes her, lifting her skirt up. The cold is startling. Then it’s in the background, lost to the sensation of Erza nipping her thighs, below the swell of her backside. Mira spreads her legs wide in anticipation.

Keeping her eyes open, she watches the river flow by, a torrent. Her eyes unfocus on the white foam, she gets lost in feeling Erza’s tongue slipping between her folds. Digging her fingernails into the concrete isn’t enough, not as Erza licks front-to-back, not as her fingers find their way inside. This, too, used to be hard. Not anymore. Now, it feels like the only thing she was ever meant to know.


End file.
